CLARA LEAVES US.
The year 1861 had dawned upon us, and Aunt Hildy had not left us as she
had expected to.
I said to her, "I believe you are better to-day than you were one year
ago." She folded her hands and looking at me, said:
"Appearances is often deceitful, Emily; I haint long to stay, neither
has the saint among us. Her eyes have a strange look in them nowadays,
and the veins in the lids show dreadful plain; we must be prepared for
it."
I could not talk about this, and how was I to prepare for it? I should
never love her less, and could I ever bear to lose her, or realize how
it would be without her? "Over there" was so far beyond me, I could only
think and sigh and wait; but the symptoms of which Aunt Hildy spoke I
noticed afterward, and it was true her eyelids seemed more transparent,
and her eyes had a watery light.
I knew she was weak, and since the snow had fallen was chilled more
easily than before, and had ventured out but little. I did not desire to
pain Louis, but feeling uneasy, could not rest until I talked with him,
and he said his heart had told him the little mother would leave us ere
long. "If she lives till the fall, we will go down and see Southern
Mary, if we can." Little Emily clung very closely to Clara, and if I had
not insisted on having the care of her, I believe she never would have
asked for me. Mother said we should spoil her, and Ben declared she
"would make music for us by and by." Ben was still interested in his
work, and as busy as a bee the long days through.
"Thirty-three years old," I said to him, "are you never to be married?"
"Guess not," he would reply laughingly, "I can't see how Hal could get
on without me, and I, in my turn, need John. What a splendid fellow he
is! They all like him around us here, and I believe I shall sell out the
mill to him and buy another farm to take care of. He handles logs as
easily as if they were matches. He is a perfect giant in strength."
"Yes, I know, Ben, but he never will live in a saw-mill. John is
destined to be a public man; he will have calls and by and bye will
stand in the high places and pour forth his eloquence. He may buy a
saw-mill, but he will never keep himself in it, no matter how hard he
tries."
"So my cake is all dough, you think, so be it, sister mine;" and baby
Emily received a bear hug from Uncle Ben, who, a moment later, was
walking thoughtfully over the hill.
The eighteenth of March was a cold day, extraordinarily so, tempestuous
and stormy. Louis had been in Boston three days, and we thought the
winds were gathering a harsh welcome for his return. His visits to
Boston were getting to be quite frequent nowadays, for he had found
some warm friends there, who had introduced themselves by letter, and
now they were making united efforts to found a home for
children,--foundlings who were to be kept and well cared for, until
opportunities were presented to place them with kind people in good
homes. He was getting on wonderfully, and I could hardly wait for the
news he would bring to us.
He came at last, and with him an immense square package looking in shape
very like a large mirror or a painting, and I wondered what it could be.
Baby Emily had to be saluted cordially, and both her little arms were
entwined around his neck.
"Now, now, little lady," said Louis, "go to thy royal mother, I have
something to show thee," and taking off the wrappings of the mysterious
package, he placed two life-size portraits before us, saying as he did
so:
"Companion pieces, my life's saving angels--behold yourself, my Emily,
see my fairy mother," and sure enough there we were. A glance at Clara
caused me to exclaim:
"Wilmur Benton painted them."
"Yes, both," he replied. "Are they not beautiful?"
"Mine is not, I am sure, Louis; but your mother's,--oh, how lovely it
is, and as natural as life! It must be the one to which Mary referred."
"It is, my Emily. I secured it long ago, and Mr. Benton has been a long
time at work on yours. He is sadly afflicted, and does not look like the
same man. His wife is dead, and I think he will not himself stay long. I
have been to see him always when in Boston, and would have told you all
before, had I not feared you might, by getting hold of one thread, find
another; Hal knows all about it. But see, Emily, just see yourself as
you are. I told you your eyes should speak from the canvas, and is it
not as well as if my own hand had held the brush?"
I looked the words I could not say, and wondered how it came that this
likeness should have been painted without my being before the artist. It
was years since Wilmur Benton left us, and the picture represented me at
my present age, I thought, and I asked:
"How did he get the expression, Louis?"
"Oh, Emily, he remembered every outline of your face, and with the
greatest ease defined them! Then from time to time, I sat near and
suggested here or there a change, until at last the work was perfected,
which in all its beauty only tells the truth; you do not see yourself
when your face lights up with glorious thought; the depth of your eyes
was to me always a study, and this man, Emily, carries in his heart
to-day the knowledge of your worth; he holds you and my little mother in
fond remembrance. His soul is purified by suffering, and this last visit
I made him has given him strength to tell me his whole life. When with a
sigh he ended his story, he looked at me sorrowfully, and said:
"'I suppose you will despise me now, but I feel that after all your
kindness I must tell you, for it is right you should know. Halbert, I
have never told--it is as well not to do so.'"
"Poor fellow," I said, "and we knew it all before."
"No, not all; his life has been a drama with wonderfully wild, sad
scenes, and the great waves of his troubles and errors have, at times,
driven him nearly crazy. His eldest son is an artist like himself, and
finely organized. The other is in the West with an uncle of his
mother's. Are you sorry I have done all this? Speak, my beloved."
My eyes told him that my heart was glad for the little comfort he could
give this man whose perfidy had given me sorrow, and Clara said:
"To help one lost lamb to find the fold is the blessed work my boy
should always do."
Aunt Hildy raised both hands at sight of our pictures, exclaiming:
"Beautiful! beautiful! Splendid! Louis could not have brought us all a
greater surprise, or one that would have been more highly valued."
Little Emily patted and kissed the faces, and soon learned to designate
them, "pit mam and mam Cla," for pretty mamma and mamma Clara.
A few weeks after this we were sitting together in earnest conversation;
the small, dark cloud hung over us that threatened civil war, and while
I could hardly believe it possible, Louis and Clara said it must come.
Matthias came in of an errand, and sat down to hear us talk, and when
father said, "Oh, no, we shall not have war; those Southerners are too
lazy to fight," he raised both his hands and exclaimed:
"Excoose me fur conterdictin' ye, but, Mr. Minot, ye dunno 'bout dat;
dey'll fight to de end ob time for dar stock. A good many on 'em owns
morin' two hundred, an' its money; it's whar de living comes from. Ef
you gib 'em a chance dey'll show you a big streak, an' fight dey will
for sartin."
The words had hardly left his lips, when Clara said:
"Oh! take me quick, dear boy!"
We all sprang to her side. Ere Louis could put his arms around her, she
fell from her chair like dead.
"Fainted! Water!" said Louis.
"Camfire!" said Aunt Hildy, and I stood powerless to move or speak. I
saw Louis lay her on the sofa, and thought she was dead; the room grew
dark, and I forced myself to feel my way to the door, and leaning
against it would have fallen had not father put his arm about me and led
me through into the entry where I could get some air. When the sickening
swimming feeling left me, and the mist fell from my eyes, I was strong
enough to do something, and kneeling by the side of the motionless
figure, felt her pulse, or rather tried vainly to find it, and put my
cheek to her mouth, whence came no breath.
"Oh! Clara darling, little mother, speak to us, our hearts are breaking!
Oh, Louis! get hot water and flannels, chafe her limbs, put a hot cloth
over the stomach and chest; she is not dead," and putting my head down,
I breathed full, long breaths into her nostrils.
"'Taint no use," said Aunt Hildy, "but we must do it," and she worked
with a will.
"That poor angel woman is done gone," said Matthias. "She couldn't stan'
it. Oh, de Lord!" and he looked the picture of despair.
We were losing hope of resuscitation, and I sank on the floor beside
Louis, who still knelt at the head of the lounge, when a faint sound
came from her lips. We held our breath and listened, and now in a low,
weak voice she said:
"I'll go back, Louis Robert, to say good-bye; I can stay a little
longer; oh! they feel so badly--yes, I must go back," and then long,
deep sighing breaths were taken. A little longer and her eyes
opened--"Louis, Emily, baby, friends, I am here."
"Oh! little mother," said Louis, "where is the trouble?"
She tried to smile, as if to cover all our fears, and said with effort:
"I am weak; I could not hold together; get some of Aunt Hildy's
bitters," and when the glass containing it was held to her lips, she
drank eagerly.
"Take both hands, Louis; let the baby touch me."
"Oh, Clara, don't go!" I said, as I held little Emily near her.
"No, no, not now, but I want help to stay; keep the baby close.
"Matthias, don't go home," she said, and then, closing her eyes, lay so
still and motionless I feared she would never move again.
A half hour had passed and she still looked so cold and white, when
suddenly her eyes opened, and her voice was strong as she said:
"I am better now, I have come clear back,--help me to get up, dear boy,"
and Louis put his arms around her to raise her; as he did so I saw a
strange look pass over her face, and her hands were laid on her limbs.
She turned her beautiful eyes upon me, as if to say "don't be
frightened," and said, "Please move my limbs, there is no feeling
there--they are paralyzed, and I am so glad it is not my hands." I moved
them gently, and thought when she was really herself she would be able
to use them. She seemed now bright and cheerful as before.
The evening wore on; Matthias went home, and at Clara's request Aunt
Hildy occupied a room with her down stairs, Louis carrying her tenderly
to her couch as if she were a child.
Sleep came toward us with laggard steps through the long night; Louis
seemed to realize it all so plainly, and my heart was in my throat. I
tried to hope, and when at last I fell asleep I wandered in dreams to a
wondrous fountain, whose silvery spray fell before me as a gleaming
promise, and I thought its murmuring music whispered, "she will live,"
and her Louis Robert, who stood near me, constantly sang the same sweet
words. I believe my dream really comforted me, for when I woke it clung
to me still, and "she will live" rang in my ears like a sweet bell
chime.
We found her better and like herself, but the lower limbs were cold as
marble, heavy also and without feeling, and we knew it was, as she had
said, "paralysis."
"Now I am to be a burden, my Emily mother, and oh, if you had not called
me back, I would have gone to the hills with Louis Robert! It was not
fancy nor delirium, for I knew that my body was falling. I saw him when
he came and whispered 'now, darling, now,' and when I lost your faces,
he raised me in his arms, and I was going, oh! till somebody breathed
upon me, and warm drops like rain touched my cheek, and I heard your
hearts all say, 'we cannot have it.' This like a strong hand drew me
back, and I thought I must come and say good-bye for a comfort to you
all. So Louis Robert, with his great love waiting for me there, drew
himself away and kindly said, 'I will wait,'--then a mist came between
us, and I opened my eyes to see you all around me."
"Oh, Clara! how can we ever let you go?"
"Ah, my beloved ones! I only go a little before you, and if you knew how
sweet it will be to be strong, you would say, because you love me, 'I
may go.' I have many things to say--and I shall remain with you a time,
and may, I fear, weary you. I am glad Louis is strong."
It was pitiful to see the patience with which she bore her suffering.
There was no pain, she said, but it was a strange feeling not to be
alive--and she would look at her limbs and say, "Poor flesh, you are not
warm any more." We had one of her crimson-cushioned easy chairs arranged
to suit her needs, and in this she could be rolled about. She sat at the
table with us and I kept constantly near her, and tried to shield her
from any extra excitement. When on the thirteenth day of April, news
reached us of the blow which, the day before, had fallen on Sumter, we
feared to let her know it. But her spirit quickened into the clearest
perception possible, divined something, and obliged us to tell her.
She said: "I knew it would come, I have felt it for years, and when the
cruel sacrifice is finished, liberty will arise, and over the ashes of
the slain will say, 'Let the bond go free.'"
Ben's eyes looked as Hal's did, when he left us for Chicago, and he
whispered to me:
"I must go. Hal must stay here; Louis cannot go. John will see to every
thing for me, and I am going."
Six days later he had enlisted, and oh! how filled these days were! When
Matthias heard of it, he came over, and happening to meet me where he
could talk freely, he said:
"Dis is jes' what I knowed was a comin', an' I have tole Ben fur to kill
dat Mas'r Sumner, de fus' ting, for he's the one dat ort fur to be
killed."
"Why, Matthias, you are in a great hurry to kill him, and you really
believe he is to drop right into that terrible fire; why, I could not
hurry a dog out of existence if I thought everlasting torment awaited
him."
"Look a yere, Miss Em'ly, ef dat dog wuz mad, you'd kill him mighty
quick, wouldn't ye?"
I did not know what to say, and he answered the question himself:
"Yas, de Lord knows, dat man needs tendin' to, an I'se mighty anxious
fur de good Lord to take him in han'. We'll live to see ebery black man
free, Miss Em'ly,--we shall, shure,--an' dere'll be high times down in
Charleston. Wonder what little Molly'll do?"
"I have been thinking about her," I said. "You know the last letter we
received they were fearful of war, and thinking of coming to her
husband's friends in Pennsylvania; but she feared her mother would die;
she has been poorly for a long time."
"Reckin she'll die, then, fur de 'sitement'll kill her, ef nuffin else
don't."
The days wore on and Clara still lingered with us. Ben was as yet
unhurt, and first lieutenant of his company. He wrote us that battle was
not what he had thought it; he was not shaky at all, and the smell of
powder covered every fear; he had only one thought and that was to do
his duty. A letter full of sorrow came from Mary. Her mother had passed
from earth, and her father was going on to a little farm they owned a
few miles from the city, and she, with her husband and Althea Emily was,
trying to get into Pennsylvania. "I am in momentary fear," she wrote,
"for my husband is watched so closely, his principles are so well known,
I think we shall have great trouble in getting through, but we cannot
stay here."
The dewy breath of May was rising about us; violet angle was alive with
its blossoms, and the birds sang sweetly as if there were no sorrowing
hearts in the land.
Clara had failed of late, and the evening of the fifteenth we were
gathered together at her request in her sitting-room.
"Do not feel troubled," she said, "for when I am out of sight, you will
sorrow if you feel I have not told it all. Come, baby Emily, sweet bird
sit close to mam Cla, while she tells the story."
Louis and I sat on either side, Aunt Hildy with mother and father very
near, so that we formed a semi-circle.
"I am losing my strength, as you all know," said Clara "and the day is
very near when I shall reach for the hand that will lead me to the
hills. Now, Louis, my dear boy, here is the paper I have written,
wherein I give to you all the things I believe you will prize. I believe
I have remembered all who have been so kind and so dear to me, and I
know you will comply with every wish, and I desire no form of the law to
cover my words." Louis took the papers with a trembling hand, and she
continued: "It is wise and right for me to tell you about the laying
away of this frame of mine, for I know if I do not tell you about it
many questions will arise, and we will have them all settled now before
I go beyond your hearing. I shall hear you and see you all the time.
"First, buy for me a cedar coffin, since it will please you to remember
that this wood lasts longer in the ground than any other. Do not have
any unnecessary trimmings for it, and I would like to wear in this last
resting-place the blue dress I prize the most. You will find in my large
trunk the little pillow I have made for my head; just let me lie there a
little on one side, and put a few of Emily's sweet violets in my hand
that I may be pleasant to look upon. Leave no rings upon my fingers;
these I wear, my Louis Robert gave me, and you must keep them for his
grandchild," and as she said this, she unfastened the shining chain that
she had worn hidden so many years, and putting it around our little
Emily's neck, said: "Let her always wear the chain and the locket," and
while the baby's eyes reflected the gleam of the gold that dazzled them,
we were all weeping. "Do not feel so," said Clara; "it is beautiful to
go; let me tell you the rest. All these people whom I have known will
desire to look at my face, and for their sakes let me be carried into
the old church which has become to me so dear. I have asked Mr. Davis to
preach from the text, 'I am the resurrection and the life.'
"Be sure that the children from the Home all go, and I would like you
with them to occupy the front pews. I have a fancy," and she smiled,
"that if you sit there it will help me to come near to my deserted
tenement. I know I shall be with you there, and I hope you will never
call me dead. My house of clay is nearly dead now, and the more strength
it loses the stronger my spirit feels. Mr. Minot said, long since, that
I might own part of his lot in the churchyard, and I would like to be
buried under the willow there. I like that corner best. Do not ever tell
little Emily I am there; just say I'm gone away to rest and to be well
and strong, and when she is older tell her the frame that held the
picture is beneath the grasses, and that my freed soul loves her and
watches her, for it will be true. If you feel, Louis, my dear boy, like
bringing your father's remains to rest beside me, you can do so. It will
not trouble either of us, for it matters little; we are to be together.
This is all, except that, if it be practicable, I should like the burial
to take place at the hour of sunset; this seems the most fitting time.
While the grave is yet open, please let the children sing together,
'Sweet Rest;' I always like to hear them sing this. To-morrow evening I
have something to say to the friends who really seem to belong to
me,--Hal and Mary, Mr. Davis, Matthias, Aunt Peg and John, Jane and her
husband. Please let them come at six o'clock."
She closed her eyes wearily, and looked so white and beautiful, her
small hands folded, and the fleecy shawl about her falling from her
shoulders, and it seemed as if the material of life, like this delicate
garment, was also falling from her. Desolation spread its map before me.
I could think of nothing but an empty room and heart, and with Louis'
arms about me, I sobbed bitterly. Then I thought how selfish I was, and
said: "Louis, take her in your arms; she is so tired, poor little
mother." The blue eyes looked at me with such a tender light, and she
said, "Yes, I am tired." Louis gathered her in his arms and seated
himself in a rocker. Aunt Hildy went for some cordial. Mother and father
sat quietly with bitter tears falling slowly, and with little Emily in
my arms, I crossed the room to occupy a seat where my tears would not
trouble her. It was sadly beautiful.
She drew strength from Louis, and was borne into her room feeling, she
said, very comfortable. I wanted to stay with her through the night, but
she said:
"No, the baby needs you; so does Louis; I know how he feels; my night
will be peaceful and my rest sweet; Aunt Hildy will rest beside me."
"Yes, yes, I'll stay, and we shall both rest well," said Aunt Hildy.
In the morning she was weak, but we dressed her, and after eating a
little she felt better, and in the afternoon seemed very comfortable and
happy. We had our supper at a little after five o'clock, and at six
o'clock, as she had wished, all were in her room.
"Louis, roll my chair into the centre of the room, and let me face the
west, for I love to see day's glory die. Now come, good friends all, and
sit near me, where I can see your faces. I want to tell you that I am
going out of your sight, and I have left to each of you what seemed good
and right to me. I hope, yes, I know you will remember that I love you
all so much I would never be forgotten. You are grown so dear to me that
I shall not forget to look upon you; and please remember that I am not
dead, but shall be to you a living, active friend, who sees and knows
your needs, and to whose heart may be entrusted some dear mission for
your greatest good. Mr. and Mrs. Turner," and she held her hands to
Jane and her husband, "be true and faithful to each other. Leave no work
undone, love the children, and ask help from the hills, whence it shall
ever come. You will, I am sure;" and her eyes turned inquiringly upon
them.
"Oh, Mis' _De_-Mond," said Jane, "I will, oh, you blessed angel woman!"
"I will, so help me God!" said Mr. Turner, and they took their seats,
while Clara, with a motion that said please come, called:
"Matthias and Aunt Peg, and you too, John, don't think I can ever forget
you. You will come to me, and you will know me there, and, John, you
have a wonderful work to do; your words will bear sweet tidings to your
race, and your reward shall be that of the well-doer."
"Oh, de good Lord! white lamb, how kin we ever let you go; you's done
got hold on our heart-strings! Oh, de good Lord bless ye, ye snow-white
darlin', an' ef it's de Mas'r's will, den we mus' lib all in the dark
widout ye, but de light ob your eyes is hevin to dis ole heart!"
"Oh, that's true' nuf!" said Aunt Peg, "God'll take care on you, but
what'll we do?" and their groans fell like the wailing winds upon the
ears of us all; our hearts were touched to their inmost chords.
"Mr. Davis," said Clara, and her eyes dilated with a wondrous light
while her voice grew unnaturally strong, "I am to see your wife. Shall I
say you are looking forward to meeting her?"
"Just that, and it will not be long," and he bowed his head as he held
in both his own her white hand.
"Halbert and Mary, come and let me bless you. My brother and sister, you
are so dear to me. You, Halbert, have a wondrous touch; you stand before
the shrine of art, and ere many years a people's verdict shall more than
seal your heart's desire; a master artist you shall be, my friend."
"Oh, Clara, Clara!" said Hal--
"Yes," she continued, "Love's fawn has won the prize for you at home and
abroad; I leave to you a friend,--Louis will attend to it all,--and
among the little ones who come there will be some who have, like you,
talent; help them as you shall see fit."
He could only bow his head, while Mary, sobbing as if her heart would
break, said:
"Do not go; oh, do not leave us!"
Clara closed her eyes and sank back among her cushions almost
breathless. We took her hands, Louis and I, and I feared she would never
speak again. Tearful and motionless these beloved ones sat about her,
and at last, when the crimson and gold swept like a full tide of glory
the broad western expanse that lay before us, she raised herself, looked
into all our faces, held her lips for a last kiss from us of the
household, and said in tones as clear as silver bells:
"I am going now; he is coming. Aunt Hildy, you will come soon. Emily,
love my Louis. Louis, kiss me again; fold close the falling garment.
Baby, breathe on me once more--Louis Robert. Oh, this is beautiful!"
Her head dropped on Louis' shoulder. Slowly the eyelids covered the
beautiful eyes.
She was dead. Clara, the purest of all, dead and how beautiful the
transition! What a picture for the sunset to look upon, as with the full
tide of sympathy flooding our hearts, we stood around her where she lay!
John, in his strong dark beauty, with folded arms, and eyes like wells
of sorrow; Matthias and Aunt Peg, with tears running over their dusky
faces; good Mr. Davis, with his gray hairs bending over her as if to
hear her tell the message to his loved one; Aunt Hildy standing like one
who is only waiting for a little more to fill the cup, which is already
near her lips; my father and mother with their tender sympathies
expressed in every feature, with Jane and her husband near them like two
statues; Hal and Mary beside Louis and me, wrapt like ourselves in the
mantle of a strange and new experience. How long we stood thus, I know
not; the last sun-rays were dying as Aunt Hildy said: "We must wait no
longer; Jane and Aunt Peg, you'll help me, the rest of you need'nt
stay;" and so we left our beautiful dead, still in the hands of her
friends.
The day of her burial was a perfect one--calm in its beauty, the blue of
its skies like the eyes of our darling. The little pillow made by her
own hands was of blue, covered with a fine web of wrought lace, and with
edging that had also been her handiwork. We dressed her as she
desired,--in a plain dress of pale blue,--the violet blossoms she loved
were in her hand, and it seemed to me as if I could never see her laid
out of sight--she was so beautiful in this last sleep; she looked not
more than thirty; there were no gray hairs among the brown, and no lines
of care or sorrow marked her sweet, pure face.
All things were as she desired, and when the sun burned low on the
hills, we laid her under the willow, while the children sang "Sweet
Rest."
"Will there ever be another like her?" I said.
"Never," said Aunt Hildy.
"No, never," said the hearts of all.
My father missed her as much as if she had been his daughter, and I was
glad of little Emily's presence; it was a star in our night. Louis was
calm and strong, and spoke of her daily, and insisted on her plate at
the table, saying:
"I cannot call her dead. Let us keep a place for her."
It was a tender recognition which we respected. He looked after her, it
seemed to me, and almost saw her in her new home. The months wore on,
and our cares were still increasing. News of battles lost and won came
to us daily, and at last a letter telling of Lieutenant Minot having
been wounded seriously. It was impossible for any one to reach him at
present, and we must wait until he got to Washington, whither he would
be sent as soon as he was able. Our fears were great, but at last a
letter came from Washington, stating he would start for home on the
twenty-first of October, and he desired Hal to meet him in New York. Hal
found that the wound was in the shoulder, and the ball was still in it.
Unsuccessful probing had caused him great suffering, and we should
hardly have known him.
When the real state of the wound was known, Aunt Hildy said:
"I can get that ball out," and she went to work energetically. She cut
cloth into strips and bound all about the place where the ball entered,
and then she made a drawing "intment," as she called it, and applied it
daily, and in about four weeks, to our great delight, the ball came out.
Ben had the receipt for that wonderful "intment," and he calls it "Aunt
Hildy's miracle."
When the cold days of the fall came upon us, Aunt Hildy felt them
greatly, and the morning of December tenth we awoke to find her gone;
she had gone to sleep to wake in a better home.
It seemed as if we could not have it so, but when I remembered all she
had told me of her hopes and fears, when I knew she had found Clara and
was glad, I said we were selfish; let our hearts say "Amen."
The town mourned Aunt Hildy, and again our church was filled to
overflowing, and the sermon Mr. Davis preached was a just and beautiful
tribute to our beloved friend, the true and faithful Hildah Patten.
The day after the burial, father said to us in a mournful tone:
"Now I have a duty to perform, and when she talked to me about it, she
said, 'Do it right off, Mr. Minot; don't wait because you feel kinder
bad to have me laid away. It's the best way to do what you've got to do,
and get it over with.'
"So to-night we'll read the papers, and then we will carry out her
desires--good old soul; I do wish she could have stayed longer. I can
hardly see how we're going to live without her."
The evening drew near, and Halbert, Mary and Ben, with little Hal, were
seated in the "middle room," while my father, with a trembling hand,
turned the key in a small drawer of the old secretary, and took out a
roll of papers and a box. As he did so a thought struck him, and he
turned suddenly, saying:
"Why are not all here? She told me to have Matthias and Peg and John
come over. I believe a few more sad partings would make me lose my
memory."
"I'll go over for them," said Ben; "it is early yet."
"Yes, there is plenty of time," said father. "The sun sets early; the
shortest day in the year will soon be with us," and his eyes closed as
if he were too tired to think, and he sat in silence until the sound of
feet on the walk aroused him.
"Hope we hain't come over to see more dyin', Miss Em'ly. 'Pears like its
gettin' pooty lonesome round yere," and as our friends seated
themselves, the old clock tolled the hour of seven.
Little Emily was asleep in Louis' lap, and her cousin Hal curled himself
up in one corner of the old sofa, as if he, too, felt the presence of
the god of sleep.
"Now we are ready," said my father, "and here is the paper written by
Aunt Hildy which she bade me read to you all, and whose instructions we
must obey to the letter, remembering how wise and good our kind friend
has ever been. It is written in the form of a letter," and he read the
following:
"My dear friends, I am writin' this as ef I was dead and you still in
the land of the livin', as we call it; I feel now as if when you read it
I shall be in the land of the livin', and you among them who feed mostly
on husks. I know by this stubbin pain in my side that I shall go to
sleep, and jest step over into Clary's room before long, and all that
ain't settled I am settlin' to-night, and to Mr. Minot's care I leave
these papers and this box. You have been good and true friends to me,
and I want to help you on a little in the doin' of good and perfect
work. When Silas left me alone he took with him little money. I don't
know what possessed him; but Satan, I guess, must have flung to the
winds the little self-respect he had. He took one boy off with him to be
a vagrant. Silas' father was a good man, and he left a good deal of
property to this son of his, and we had got along, in a worldly sense,
beautiful; so when, he went away he left considerable ready money and a
lot of land, and I've held on to it all. Sometimes I've thought one of
'em might come back and want some of it; but now I know they are dead.
From time to time I've sold the land, etc., and you see I've added to
what was left. I now propose to divide it between Emily and Louis, as
one, Jane North Turner and her husband, and John Jones."
As this name fell from my father's lips, John's dark eyes spoke volumes
and his broad chest heaved with emotion, but he sat perfectly erect,
with his arms folded, and I thought what a grand picture he made.
Matthias groaned:
"Oh, de good Lord ob Israel, what ways?" Aunt Peg gave vent to one of
her peculiar guttural sounds as father concluded the unfinished sentence
with the names of Ben, Hal and his good little wife.
"Now, you can't do a great deal with this money, but it will go a little
ways toward helpin' out. I believe there is just three thousand dollars,
and that figgers only six hundred dollars apiece. Now, ef Ben's
shoulder prevents him from workin', and he needs to have it, Halbert
must give him half of what I leave to him, and I know he'll do it. Ben
wants to get married, and I can see which way the wind blows in that
quarter, and I think sense he's been half killed you'd all better help
him. When that comes to pass, give to him all the furniture and beddin'
that I leave, for his wife will be sensible enough to be glad of it.
Halbert's likeness of me in marble is a great thing they say, and sells
well, and he will please to put me up again in that same shape, and then
sell the picter and use the money to help the poor. He'll do jest what
I'd like to have him.
"Emily and Louis will know jest what to do with their share; and now,
John Jones, to you,--as a child of our father, as a brother to me,--I
say, help yourself with what little I bestow in the very best way you
can. Ef I didn't know you would look well after Peg and Matthias I
should have left it to them and not to you. They won't stay here very
much longer, any way--and its all peace ahead, blessed peace. You,
perhaps, are wonderin' why Jane and her husband ain't here in this list.
This is the reason: I wanted to tell you jest how I come to have this
money, and I thought her husband would feel bad at the explanation. I
should like to have you all go over there, and let Mr. Minot read to Mr.
and Mrs. Turner and the children the paper I have left for them. Now I'm
contented to go, and ef they do put a railroad track through my wood
lot, it can't make me feel bad. The things of earth that I held so close
through long years, will not seem to me any more as they have, too holy
to be teched."
When father concluded the reading, we sat in such silence that the tick
of the old clock, was to our ears the united beating of our hearts. Our
thoughts were all centered on the wisdom and goodness of our unselfish
friend who, through her life had been ever mindful of the needs of her
fellow-men, and who, when standing before the gate of her eternal home,
threw behind her her last treasure, thinking still of the poor hearts
who needed its benefit.
We were to assemble at Jane's the next afternoon at five o'clock, and
when we said "good night," John looked up at the stars and said:
"If the spirit of that good woman sees me, she reads what I cannot tell
you."
The next afternoon found us in Jane's large square room, which faced the
western sky, and no less than twenty children were seated there with us.
This number seemed to be the complement of the Home,--as many as could
comfortably be accommodated. It was a pleasant care to Jane, for her
heart was in the work, and she looked younger now than before the work
began. The wishes of the boys were consulted, and each one as nearly
fitted to the place he occupied as possible. Jane said, when they first
began to multiply, the care troubled her some; but she began to talk to
herself, and to say: "There now, don't be foolish enough to notice every
little caper of them boys," and then, she said: "I began to practise
what I preached to myself. It worked first-rate, for I give over
watchin' 'em, and we get along splendid."
There was a breathless silence when Louis said:
"We are here at the request of your friend, children, the blessed Aunt
Hildy who has left a word for you. You know she loved you, and I
imagine at this moment you are each wearing a pair of stockings which
were knit for you by her. Now listen, please, while Mr. Minot reads to
you her letter."
Then, in a slow and impressive manner, father read as follows:
"My dear folks at the Home. I'm about to leave this world for a better,
and on the borders of that blessed land I think of you. I think of your
happy faces and of Mr. and Mrs. Turner, who love you so much, and I
should like to have you know that I expect to meet you all over there.
You boys will grow to be good men, and you girls, who are like sweet
pinks to my mind, I want you to make blessed good women every one of
you. Now I think the good folks who take care of you would be thankful
to have a school-house of their own, and teachers who are interested in
the work of helping you along; and to give a little help, I leave to Mr.
and Mrs. Turner eight hundred dollars--two hundred is in the box in one
dollar gold pieces--to build a school-house with. You know I own a piece
of land next to yours, and here in this plot of two acres I want you to
put up this school-house. Give Mr. Brown the work, and let him draw up
the plan with Mr. Turner; I've figured it out, and I think there's
enough to build a good, substantial building such as you need; and the
deed of the two acres I give to the children. Each one of their names is
there, including those of the two that came first. Let each one, ef old
enough, do as he or she pleases with the ground. Ef they want to raise
marigolds, let 'em, and ef they want to raise garden sass, let 'em. I
should think Burton Brown would like to step in as a teacher, and I
believe he will, but the rest you can manage.
"Now this is all. When you get the school-house built you'll want a walk
around it, and ef you should have a border of flowers, you may put in
some 'live forever' for me, for that means truth, and that is what I
want you to find. If Fanny Mason feels like goin' over to Mis' Minot's
to live with her, I'd like to have her go, and if she does, she'll find
two chests and a trunk full of things I've left that she needs, but she
must have her piece of ground here just the same. The deed I have made
is recorded, and I would like to have Mr. Dayton survey the land, and
make the division of it. Then you can each one of you hold your own as
long as you live, Mr. and Mrs. Turner keepin' it in trust till the law
says you're of age."
The hearts of the children were touched at this token of love. Bright
eyes reflected happy thoughts. Fanny Mason was the first to speak. She
looked at my mother, while her eyes swam in tears.
"May I come, Mrs. Minot?--I would like to help somebody, and it must be
right or she would not have written it."
Mother held her hand to her, and I thought I never saw gratitude more
plainly written than upon the face of Fanny. She was one of the three
girls whom Louis found in the city streets, the eldest of the flock, and
so good and amiable we had always loved her. When mother held her hand
out to her in answer to her question, little Emily thought it time to
speak, and putting out both her own, said:
"Tum, Panny, et, you outer."
"I will," said Fanny, as she gathered her in her arms.
"I'm goin' to have flowers," I heard one little fellow say.
"I'm goin' to raise corn," said another.
Mr. Davis was with us this evening, and after the children had given
vent to their joy, he rose, saying:
"I have a word to say of our dear good friend, Mrs. Patten. About four
weeks before she left us, I had a long talk with her. She told me of her
pleasant anticipations and also that she expected to see me there ere
long. Her last words on that memorable occasion were, as nearly as I can
remember, these: 'I go from death to life, from bondage to freedom. All
I have of earth I want to leave where it shall point toward heaven, or a
higher condition of things. If you were to stay, Brother Davis, you
should do some of this work, but you must get yourself ready, and you
need no more to dispose of.' I feel that this is true, and I ask you,
children, to feel that I shall hope to be remembered by you through
time. The lesson of harmonious action has been taught upon these hills,
and when the years to come shall brighten our pathway, tired hearts will
still be waiting. The angel of deliverance will be present then, as now,
and the munificence of those who have gone from us, as well as of those
who are yet in the body, has made the strong foundation on which to
stand; and in the blest future your hands will be helpful, while your
hearts shall sing of those whose hearts and hands did great service for
the advancement of love and truth. My heart is glad; I have learned
much; I know that our Father holds so closely his beloved, that no one
of his children shall call to him unheard."
We had a real meeting, as Jane expressed it, and I said to Louis:
"What a great fire a small matter kindleth!"
He replied: "We have claimed the promise and brought to our hearts the
strength we need 'where two or three are gathered together.' You know I
often think of this, and also of the incomparable comfort the entire
world would have if the eyes that are blinded could see; if the hearts
that beat slow and in fear were quickened into life. Ah! Emily, the
years to come hold wondrous changes. The cruel hand of war would never
have touched us had the first lesson in life's book been well read and
understood."
"That is true," said my father, as we entered the gate at home, and
looking up I saw two stars, and said:
"Clara and Aunt Hildy both say 'Amen!'"